


Take your Medicine and Crawl Before you Walk

by tameimpala



Series: Crossfire [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dependency, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Heavy Angst, Other, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Post-Stanford, Pre-Series, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tameimpala/pseuds/tameimpala
Summary: 6 months after Sam left the family business for Stanford and 2 months after John Winchester almost killed his remaining son, Dean sits in another no-tell-motel absently watching his father return to drink. But soon John’s loosened lips reveal that he’s known about a certain habit that the younger hunter had thought he’d been keeping under wraps since that night 8 weeks ago…Pre-series: Set during the Stanford-Era





	1. Think it through before you open your mouth to talk

**Author's Note:**

> Only 2 years later and she's back with a new story for the Crossfire series!!!
> 
> So this series is definitely not over and this story follows the first two fics, [The Boys Who didn't Fly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3596544?view_full_work=true) and [This Church of Mine may not be Recognised by Steeple](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4212447), very closely. I would recommend reading them first but as I've said before I _think_ it's completely readable as a stand alone fic- the rest of the series just gives it context.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy!

* * * * * *

#  ________________

  


**February 2002**

  


  


The Winchester’s had always had topics that were off limits. Always.

  


And number one on the list, the indisputable champion, was Mary Winchester. Don’t mention her, don’t speak about her, just blindly avenge her. Somewhere along the way she’d lost her status as a person after her death, suddenly she became a symbol of their shared loss, the source of all their struggles, and the reasoning behind everything that drove them forward into each gory hunt.

But God forbid if either of John’s sons _mentioned_ her… 

Whether Dean just wanted to reminisce or Sam asked for any kind of insight into the woman who had inadvertently turned them into the para-militant family they were, whatever the reason it didn’t matter. That was a no go area. John had made sure of that, and Dean had blindly backed him up.

  


_“Is that why we never talk about… Mom?”_

  


_“Shut up! Don’t you ever talk about Mom. Ever!”_

  


Only now did Dean realise how truly damaging forbidding Sam to talk about his own mother had been on him. As he sat on one of the two queen-sized beds of their shabby motel room Dean’s mind drifted, as it often did these days, to the second worst night of his life.

Watching Sammy abandon them. Abandon _him_.

He ran his fingers absentmindedly over the itchy duvet cover beneath him whilst his eyes slid out of focus. The TV he’d been staring at for the last half an hour blurred into obscurity as he lost himself to the echoes of that awful argument:

  


_“It’s been 18 years Dad... You’re never going to find it. Even if you do you're right, Mom’s gone. You ruined our lives over someone I can’t even REMEMBER!"_

  


_“Do you think I’m just going to roll over and follow his orders for the rest of my life? No. No, I’m leaving and neither of you are stopping me.”_

  


He saw Sammy’s face so clearly in his mind's eye.... His tearful eyes full of pain and pity in equal measure as Dean begged his brother to stay. He knew what Sam was going to say, the words haunted both his waking and sleeping moments constantly...

  


_“Dean… You’ve got to have known this was coming.”_

  


Sam’s departure had been bubbling under the surface for years. Of course Dean had known it was coming, how could he not? He knew that kid better than he knew himself. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. It didn’t make the resulting gaping chasm that had grown in the wake of Sam’s leaving any smaller. And it certainly didn’t stop John Winchester getting any less drunk.

However, there was a period of time were John had sobered up for a while. A small hiatus until the regular viewing schedule his son was used to returned. This had followed the night that Dean had returned to the room they had been staying in for a few days after hustling pool in a near-by bar to discover his father had hit the booze hard in his absence. John had struck him with a bottle and attempted to stab him, believing Dean to be a shapeshifter.

In the aftermath Dean had drove to Bobby’s, which was mercifully close to where they were staying at the time. The old hunter had patched him up with that familiar look of anger and concern that he had worn the last time he’d seen John’s handy work. Then Dean, not wanting to hear Bobby’s speech that he was surely keeping up his sleeve for when Dean was healed, repaid his surrogate uncle by taking off with the rest of the hospital-grade painkillers he’d given him the night before whilst Bobby was preoccupied helping a customer who had turned up at his door the following day with a long list of parts he was looking to salvage. The young hunter had felt guilty for leaving him pretty much high and dry without even saying goodbye but he knew that Bobby would forgive him. His father on the other hand would not be so forgiving if he was gone for more than a day, that was if he was still passed out in in the Garretson motel Dean had left him in.

  


It turned out he was. And after Dean returned to a seriously hungover John Winchester who sat amongst the wreckage of the motel room in a daze, things had actually improved.

Sure, they still weren’t exactly talking to each other… Avoidance had and always would be a treasured skill to the Winchesters. But at least there was a unspoken understanding between them both for those few months. Dean didn’t see John touch a single drink and his father didn’t see Dean swallowing the pills he’d snagged from Bobby’s house every other hour like they were candy, embracing the waves of numbness that the little white tablets granted him. 

_“Novril. The good stuff."_ Bobby had told him and the next day Dean found the rest of the old hunter's stash in one of his kitchen cupboards and read the word Novril which was printed over and over again on the foil of the packaging. Two months on he couldn't go more than ten minutes without that word ringing like a bell in his brain, signalling the need for another fix.

 _"Don’t get hooked.”_ Bobby had warned him off offhandedly, not even nursing the thought that Dean would actually become dependent on the small tablets. And in all honesty Dean himself never thought he would either... Funny what life can throw at you isn't it? Dean would have thought that the whole situation was quite hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic and if he wasn't completely hooked on the stuff, which he definitely was.

But any person from the outside looking in at their disastrous lives might have thought that perhaps his model-of-health father was turning over a new leaf- that the shock of almost killing Dean in drunken confusion had put an end to his drinking and punishment of his only remaining son for his youngest’s desertion. But Dean knew better, his _father_ had taught him better than to believe that people can change. So he waited for the other shoe to drop again. 

  


And sure enough it did. Two months later and six months after Sam left them John started drinking again like he’d never stopped in the first place.

  


He sat across from Dean on the other queen bed that also inhabited the room. The older hunter had made his way through three cans of his 6-pack without saying a word to his son. However, as he opened his fourth beer, Dean heard him chuckle to himself.

“Huh, it’s funny ain’t it?” John muttered, his speech already taking on that loose drawl that both Dean and Sam had hated and feared in equal measure.

Dean’s vision re-focused as he half-heartedly listened to his father. An infomercial about a quick chopper that could cut your food up appeared in front of his eyes on the grainy TV screen. _**Slice and dice with just a tap!**_ Crooned the happy announcer as Dean debated whether or not to answer John or not.

“Dean- You listening boy?” Snapped the older hunter impatiently and Dean’s choice was made for him.

“Yes sir.” He answered habitually and hated himself on Sam’s behalf for the automatic response that John could elicit from him. Dean realised that he’d turned away from the infomercial and was now staring at his father, but he looked at him just as blankly and benignly as he’d stared at the TV. 

“I said it’s funny, isn’t it? Us sat here like strangers, all ‘cos he couldn’t stay… Couldn’t follow orders.”

Dean felt his jaw clench, he wanted to yell at John and scream that Sam isn’t some disobedient dog that ran away from home. But the words died in his mouth, because that is _exactly_ how his father views Sam. And Dean is obviously the loyal obedient dog in John’s (and even his brother’s) eyes, but no matter how faithful he was it would never be enough devotion to cover for his father’s one missing soldier as well. 

  


John Winchester's mind was perpetually fixed on the soul deserter of their squadron of three. Sam’s departure loomed over them both like a black cloud that would never lift.

  


“Just- Just fucking ungrateful that’s what he is.” John stated and promptly drained the rest of his drink. He threw the empty can unceremoniously into the trash then turned back to Dean. “Always has been. The both of you are.”

His last words cut the younger man deep. “We both are?” Dean said shortly, not believing his ears.

“Don’t use that tone with me.” Barked his father, “You think I can’t see it? The resentment? What, did you want some lily-ass cushy childhood after your mother was killed?”

“Dad just stop.” Murmured Dean, he didn’t want to have this conversation. For once he actually missed the silence, there was something comforting and peaceful about it. But John always knew how to slice through the calm with a few well-aimed words and the man was at the top of his game when he had a beer in his hand.

“Hell you may not have been so vocal about your lot as that kid was but you’re not as hard to read as you think.” John carried on as if he never heard Dean. In all likelihood he didn’t hear him over the metal crack of another beer being opened. 

“That kid…” Repeated Dean. “You mean-“

“You know damn well who I mean.” Fired back John, still refusing to say Sam’s name. “Imagine, just going off to college knowing the things we know. Has he got no responsibility, no loyalty? And I bet it was the last nail in the coffin for you.” He chuckled darkly and then raised the can up to his lips.

“Just give me the beer Dad, come on…” Dean reached for the drink but John just slapped his hand away.

“No. I know your tactics, I don’t distract easy like your brother.” John stood up and walked over to the small table by the window. For a moment Dean thought he was going to walk out the door and for a second there the young hunter wanted him to. Cogs started turning in Dean’s head, if John left him in favour of a bar then he could take a pill or two in peace and fall into a dreamless numbing slumber that he so desperately craved…

  


But instead of barrelling out of the motel room’s sun-yellowed door John changed course. He stopped in front the small dining table, held onto the back of one of the chairs and sighed as though the weight of the world was crashing down on him. The older man shook his head sadly then lifted it again so his brown eyes could search for Dean in the dully lit room. But when he found his son he immediately dropped his gaze and spoke in a softer voice than usual, “Why are you even here Dean?”

“What?” Replied a dazed Dean, his father’s voice shaking him once again from his increasingly frantic longing for the Novril tablets. He made an effort to look at John and swallowed hard to try and ease the dryness in his mouth, “You’re seriously asking me that?”

“Yeah I am.” John said solemnly, the steel returning to his voice, “And I want an answer. Or I could just kick you out now. Save me the trouble later down the line.”

“You- You think I’m going to leave…” Spluttered his eldest son.

“I _know_ you’re going to leave.” John corrected him. “As I said, resentment and ungratefulness. It was in your brother and it’s in you too.”

“God Dad, you don’t make this easy you know.” Dean suddenly stood up too, he was getting sick of being on the receiving end of all his father’s frustrations at his brother, at the world, at their whole life. 

The man turned away from John to stare at the door of the bathroom where he knew his pills were waiting for him in his wash bag. He’d quickly ran out of the original stash he’d stolen from Bobby so last week he'd took it upon himself to visit a local hospital armed with his fake health inspector’s ID and quickly lifted four more boxes from a supply room with zero trouble. In fact it had been so easy Dean felt like informing the staff about the lax security… _‘I mean, I just waltzed in here and took your drugs! Imagine if I was a psychopath!’_ thought Dean as he left the hospital practically rattling with pills. 

But when he was safely back in his Impala after dry-swallowing two painkillers and staring groggily at the savagely ripped open packaging of one of the Novril boxes, he started to think that perhaps he was the psychopath he wanted to warn them about.

As he stood glaring at his father he noticed that his hands were starting to tremble under the building need for another pill, he tried his hardest not to let the shake enter his voice too. 

“After everything I’ve done for you…” Dean breathed out in exasperation and tried to ball his hands into fists to subdue the shakes, “And you still…”

“See, resentment.” John smiled as though his son had just proven him right and took another chug of the off-brand beer in his hand. “And don’t come at me with that shit Dean. Why don’t you climb off your high horse there and we’ll have a look through your duffel huh?”

  


Dean paled, his thoughts still firmly focused on the drugs that he was so sure his father didn’t know about. He was aware of how shifty he must look, not to mention the trembling and the slight sheen of sweat that had started to appear on his forehead. The younger man, who had always thought that his struggles fell well below his father’s radar, started to worry that John had been paying more attention to him than he had realised…

“W-Why?” Dean asked unconvincingly and John shook his head as if he’d confirmed his suspicions.

“Just like him. Secrets Dean… I’ll give your brother one thing at least he kept college under wraps but you…” His father started to walk away from the table and bent down to pick up Dean’s bag that had been discarded on the floor ever since they’d returned to the motel room. “I can hear you rattle like a damn maraca with all those pills you’re taking.” 

Dean stared at him in disbelief and involuntarily started moving towards the bathroom. The real location of the rest of his drug stash. In the meantime, he attempted to stall the older hunter who still had hold of his bag. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Said Dean, watching the older man's every movement like a hawk.

“Oh yeah?” Challenged John. He promptly flipped the duffel over and emptied out its contents onto the floor. Clothes, books, paper, knives, and cassette tapes fell to the ground. They both stared at Dean’s rather pathetic collection of belongings before John’s keen gaze fell on an empty white tablet tray that lay beneath the sleeve of a plaid shirt. The older man bent down and picked it up with an unreadable expression on his face whilst Dean hung his head in shame. He cursed himself for not throwing the evidence away, was he getting sloppy?

  


~~Addicts~~ Hunter's rule #101: **Always cover your tracks**. 

  


“Where’d you stash them?” Came John’s eerily calm voice from right in front of him. The 23 year old glanced up to stare into his father’s eyes.

“Dad…” Dean started to plead.

  


“ **Where. Did. You. Stash. _Them?_** ” Repeated John, stressing every single word dangerously.

  


“Please. I-”

“You what?” His father grabbed his shoulders and shook him painfully, “You need them? Don’t be so pathetic. You’ve just got yourself fucking hooked on them that’s what’s happened son. It’s weakness and I won’t have it.”

“But you drink!” Dean yelled back, batting away his father’s arms in anger at his hypocrisy. “You’ve been drowning in the stuff since I was four years old Dad! I bet you can’t even remember half the things you’ve done whilst you were drunk as fuck, never mind half the things you’ve done to _me!_ ”

  


Tears started to sting his eyes as he moved his left hand to block the doorway of the bathroom. He waited for John to react to his outburst but he stayed silent. They both let Dean's words hang heavily in the air before the younger man gave in and dropped his voice down to a barely audible plea, “Just let me have this please. Just this one thing please Dad.”

  


“Move Dean.” Ordered John.

  


“No.” Dean stood his ground despite the pain of withdrawal bleeding through his sweating and trembling skin. 

  


“Move right now or I’ll make you.” To some this may have sounded like a warning but to Dean Winchester he knew it was a promise.

  


  


The younger man looked up into his father’s dark eyes and slowly shook his head.

  


  


The very next second a fist hit him squarely in the face, knocking him out cold.

  


  


  



	2. Time and confusion glowing up ahead

* * * * * *

#  ________________

  


Dean awoke groggily to the sound of crackling foil. The small but familiar noise seriously pained his pounding head.

  


He opened his heavy eyelids in annoyance to find the source of it but instead he found himself staring at his hands… Hands which were handcuffed to the exposed U-bend of a bathroom sink.

  


“What the-” Mumbled Dean, jerking his hands back only to have the chain of the handcuffs stop his movement sharply and create a loud metallic clang against the pipe he was currently attached to, further aggravating his head.

“You’re awake.” Stated a quiet voice from above him. 

Dean craned his neck upwards to find his father standing next to the toilet with a handful of pill packets in his hand.

Blind panic rose in Dean, he immediately tried to lunge towards John but again the handcuffs prevented him from moving far. The cold metal tore into his wrists as he struggled against them but Dean payed it no mind as he glared at his father who stood there holding what was left of his Novril tablets hostage.

“Dad please don’t do it.” Dean pleaded as he tried to get to his feet but only succeeded in half kneeling on the linoleum floor of the small bathroom. It was infuriating how close John was and yet Dean couldn’t reach him, the younger man knew that if he stretched his feet he could probably reach his father but realistically what could he do? Kick at John’s shins till he gave his medicine back? 

John shook his head and looked at his son silently with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“What do you think I’m going to do Dean?” Asked John as his hands tightened around the plastic that contained the pills to produce that same crackling noise Dean had heard when he had reawakened, “Flush them all away? Is that what you’re so afraid of?”

The 23 year old didn’t answer. He just continued to struggle against the handcuffs, his sharp green eyes glued to the pill packets the entire time.

“Stop it son. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Commanded John loudly in that authoritative tone that made Dean stop dead in his tracks. The echoes of the older hunter’s sharp bark reverberated around the small room. A chorus of John Winchesters surrounded them both for a few moments, then silence fell uneasily between the father and son.

“God, just look at you.” John finally said to Dean after the quiet became too much. He wiped a steady hand over his face in exhaustion and the younger man was unnerved by the gesture. 

Dean noticed, thanks to the steadiness of John’s hand that even Dean himself at this moment of time didn’t have, that his father seemed to be sobering up from all the alcohol he’d drunk previously and as usual Dean found himself wondering whether or not that was a good or a bad thing. If John was drunk then Dean could blame whatever it was that his father was planning to do on the fact that he was wasted. It made things easier to deal with. And it made things easier to forgive.

  


John moved his dark eyes away from Dean and turned them down to stare at the Novril tablets in his hand. 

“Maybe I _should_ flush ‘em.” He muttered to himself and Dean immediately sprang back to life as if he had been electrocuted.

“I can get more!” Yelled Dean defiantly, trying to talk John out of ruining the last of his stash. Though at this point, as much as he would hate to admit it to both himself and his father, he was so desperate for the pills he would willingly fish them out of the toilet bowl just to stop the pain that was consuming his whole body. 

Sweat was building heavily on his brow, partly due to the withdrawal symptoms and part exertion from fighting against the cuffs. Dean knew he was giving off heatwaves and could feel the tremors shaking through his entire body. He’d been in some bad states in front of his family but none of them had been self-inflicted in this way. He was willing to bet that he looked like a complete mess to John right now, he’d never been this long without Novril for 2 months. Dean had taken his last pill a day ago and the cravings he was experiencing right now were becoming unbearable. Lately he’d been taking up to three a day, it was terrifying how dependant he'd become in such a short amount of time.

All Dean wanted was the release that the drugs provided him with, but the truth was he was scaring himself as much as he was scaring John. Just being without the pills for a day and the threat of losing what he had left proved how quickly it had taken over his life. However he couldn’t stop himself. 

“You know I can get more,” Repeated Dean defiantly, the words sounded pathetic and childish even to his own ears, “You’d be fixing nothing Dad!” 

“I know. You’d probably drive yourself to the nearest hospital and rob them dry wouldn’t you?” John knelt down in front of Dean so that they were eye to eye. However John, ever the hunter, kept a safe distance away from his son just in case he decided to lash-out. “But something tells me you’re desperate Dean. Haven’t had a fix in a while am I right?”

“Stop it.” Pleaded the younger man, he already had taunting begging voices reaching a crescendo inside his own head- he didn’t need John joining in too.

“You need a top up right? Just enough to numb everything, block the world out.” His words weren’t desperate like the niggling drug starved words rattling around Dean’s head, they sounded pitiful... Even understanding.

“STOP IT!” Yelled Dean as he did his best to curl into himself, trying to protect himself from the thousands of voices that were eating away at him...

  


_They were John’s orders, his mother’s last goodnight, the screams of monsters, the dying yells of victims, it was Sam’s final question… **‘Can’t you think for your self for once? Just once?’**_

  


But more than anything it was himself. His voice. The one that said you’re not strong enough, you _need_ this, it will _help_. Take it. Take the pill. Take it _now. TAKE IT._

  


“I get it son, I do.” A hand landed on Dean’s shuddering shoulder and squeezed hard, the younger man swore he could feel his bones grind together under his father’s hand. He didn’t know if the gesture was supposed to be comforting or threatening. 

“I thought you were better, _stronger_ than this.” John added, shaking Dean a little as he stressed that one word… _Stronger…_

“Maybe I was.” Dean muttered into his own heaving chest and tried to turn further away from the older hunter. Angry and frustrated tears started to collect in his eyes, ones he wished his restrained hands could brush away. “But after- After Sammy… And everything I- I’m broken Dad. You can’t take away the only thing that’s keeping me together.”

  


He breathed in, tried to compose himself, then turned back to face his father. 

  


“Please.” He said in a hollow voice that sound dead to both of the men’s ears.

“Dean, you’re not 'together'.” Sighed John. “You’re sat there strung out for your next fix in cuffs.“

“Oh yeah?” A spark lighted in Dean and he glared at the other hunter in annoyance, “Who put me in them?”

“It’s for your own good.” John stood up and gestured nondescriptly to the room, “This is for your own good.”

“You can’t stand there and say that!” Yelled Dean. He was so tired of his father’s double standards. It had always been one rule for himself, another rule for Sammy, and a whole entire constitution for Dean. “Booze has been your crutch for decades! You about to pour all your alcohol down the toilet too?”

“It’s not the same and you know it.” Said John between gritted teeth.

“No it’s goddamn worse.” Spat back Dean. “Novril helps me, it calms me, lets me breathe easy for once in this life.”

“You sound like a fucking drug commercial.” John muttered as he walked towards the door. Dean thought he was about to leave but at the last moment John turned and leaned against the frame.

“What happens when you’re all doped up on a hunt Dean?” He asked his son, “How can you watch my back or even your own? You’ll get someone killed, you could let a monster go free.”

The younger man snorted, “You haven’t even noticed till now I had the stuff- I have it under control Dad!”

“Oh I noticed, don’t think I hadn't. I knew it was something. I learnt my lesson from your brother. You’ll learn yours too.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Asked Dean cautiously, not liking the threat in those words.

John looked down at the pill packets still crushed in his left hand for a few moments, then back to his son again.

“I mean I’m not flushing your drugs away Dean.” He told the younger hunter in a somewhat defeated tone, “You can have them.”

“What?” Said Dean in disbelief.

“Yeah, you can have them.” John started to push the tablets out of the blister packs, producing that satisfying sound of split foil.

“You’re going to take them all.” The older man stated matter-of-factly, “Right now.”

  


Dean’s heart skipped a beat. It took a moment or two to register what his father had just said as his drug starved brain had only registered _'you can have them'_. But as he watched John remove all the left-over pills from their packets he realised that taking them all? That would be fatal. 

  


“Dad- w-wait…” Stuttered Dean as he started to freak out at the thought.

“What?” John stopped for a second and stared at the 23 year old, “Changed your mind?” 

“This is crazy I’m not taking-” 

“Yes you are Dean and that’s an order.” Interrupted the older hunter as he carried on pushing the last few tablets into the palm of his right hand, which was already full of white pills.

“It’ll kill me!” Shouted Dean, dread now starting to course through his veins, “You’ll kill me!”

“That finally getting through to you huh?” Replied John with a bitter laugh. For a second Dean thought that the threat of an overdose alone was the lesson. That just getting Dean to admit that the pills would kill him was going to be enough for his father… But he, as always, knew better. The Winchester’s didn’t subscribe to that _‘the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem’_ bullshit they peddle out at those self-help groups, even if that bullshit wasn’t bullshit at all. 

  


No. In John Winchester’s world actions spoke louder than words. You’re ready? _Show me._ You’re sorry? _Prove it._

  


You know these drugs you’ve been taking can kill you? _Take them._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one more chapter left again- I always do this, plan for a certain amount of chapters then add more... But I swear it'll be posted and complete soon!


	3. You bit off more, much more than you could chew

* * * * * *

  


#  ________________

John turned his back and left the room. Dean sat frozen for a few seconds before he leapt back to life and started to pull at the handcuffs desperately. His wrists were already red raw from his constant struggling and in some places he’d broken skin, blood was appearing sporadically around the deepest grazes. 

From the next room Dean could hear the tell-tale sound of glass hitting a surface hard. 

His father’s short run without alcohol had surely just come to an end. 

Anger pulsated through him and Dean tried to twist his body so that he could kick at the pipe that the handcuffs were attached to. He succeeded in one small kick to the U-bend but it was pitiful. Dean couldn’t even move enough to get one strong hit in, never mind the multiple kicks it would take to break the pipe and free himself.

Before he could come up with another plan John walked back into the bathroom holding a bottle of whiskey and a glass in one hand and all of what was left of Dean’s Novril pills in the other.

Once again John knelt down in front of his son but this time he avoided eye contact. He set the dirty glass down on the floor and then poured the whiskey into it, John wasn’t being too careful in filling the cup as splashes of the alcohol landed around the glass rather than in it.

Dean expected his father to drink from the half full glass but instead he pushed it away from the both of them.

“I’ve gotta make you see Dean.” Said John slowly. The younger man felt sick as the smell of whiskey from both his father and the bottle filled the small bathroom. “You’ll understand, after the drill.”

Dean had been put through thousands of training drills growing up… How to pick a lock… How to cut through restraints… 

  


But never how to survive an overdose.

  


“Dad you don’t-” But Dean was cut off as John’s hand shot out and clamped over his son’s open mouth just as he was mid-way through his sentence.

Suddenly two dozen pills hit Dean’s tongue and a few stray ones landed in his throat, sticking to his tonsils. The younger man’s eyes bulged as he realised that John had forced all of Dean’s remaining drugs into his mouth. The familiar powdery metallic taste of the pills silenced every other thought apart from _swallow._

But there were too many tablets, the ones that had fallen to the back of his throat were now begining to choke him. He started to struggle violently against the hand that was still pressed tightly over his mouth and nostrils, blocking his air supply, leaving him with very few options...

“Just swallow the pills Dean! Come on-” Ordered his father and Dean had no other choice. He gave into the voices that now screamed inside his head, wanting the drugs and nothing more.

He followed John’s commands like the solider he was. 

Dean swallowed as many of the tablets that he could at first and then chewed up the rest. He was so caught up the relief his system felt as it finally got it’s fix that he didn’t even resister the hand leaving his mouth.

“Here, drink this.” A voice said, but Dean didn’t care. He listed to the side in a daze as the abundance of drugs started to take over him.

Cold glass clinked against his teeth harshly and the overwhelming smell of whiskey pulled him from the hazy cloud that was enveloping him. 

The glass tilted up and Dean was suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. He would drink any liquid, even that off-brand gas station whiskey, to wash the remnants of the chewed-up tablets away.

It burned like fire as Dean drank but he finished the glass, which was taken away the second he’d drank it all. However almost immediately after, Dean started to gag as the drugs and whiskey fought their way up his throat.

“No son, you keep it in.” It was his father again and Dean wanted to yell for help, he tried to reach for him but was stopped by the metal around his wrists.

The world was starting to dim and Dean opened his eyes to search for John but all he found was an empty room.

His father had finally left him for dead. 

This was not a drill. This was Dean’s final, fatal lesson.

The young hunter finally let go and let the tide take him. The world was gone, trickling away. All he felt was numbness and someone desperately calling his name…

  


The calming tide was interrupted by the sensation of something pushing down very hard at the back of Dean’s throat. It broke through the numbness encapsulating his body and he gagged involuntary and his stomach churned in anger, instantaneously he felt the urge to vomit.

The Novril burned all the way up as the undigested pills forced their way out. 

Dean’s body convulsed with every single heave, sweat and tears ran freely down his face as he vomited. He wanted it to be over, he wanted the numbness back but there was something else fighting against those longing feelings… And eventually, as he gagged and heaved, he realised he was still clinging to life and his body was fighting to rid himself of what was last of the painkillers.

The tears that ran down Dean’s face were a mixture of exertion, pain, and anger. He even hated himself for feeling grief at the loss of the pills that, if they were still in his system, would have killed him. 

“It’s okay son, you got them all up.” Said a slightly slurred voice to the left of him. Dean turned his head to look at his father in surprise. He tried to speak but the residue of the thrown-up pills constricted his throat painfully and suddenly he was hunched over in a painful coughing fit which brought yet more tears to his eyes and caused his arms to pull painfully against his still shackled hands.

“Dean! Dean just breathe!” Hands were trying to untangle him as he coughed and gagged in equal measure. Dean felt like yelling at his father for his stupid orders, _you try breathing after I force a fistful of painkillers down your neck and make you wash it down with whiskey you asshole._ But unfortunately he couldn’t do anything but choke on the burning remnants of the medication despite how badly he wanted to cave in John Winchester’s skull.

Dean heard the familiar click of a lock and the pressure was released from his hands. In a daze he was pulled to his feet, half-dragged out of that prison of a bathroom and then dropped unceremoniously onto his bed. The young hunter moaned in pain as his body continued to perform a tag-team of sharp stabs to his stomach and throat. Distantly he heard the running of a tap and the sound of heavy boots making their way over to him.

“Here.” Said his father as he roughly pulled Dean up right and once again forced a cold glass up to his mouth.

The 23 year-old flinched away and John sighed, “It’s just water, I promise.”

Dean was never one to believe promises, especially one’s coming from John. But the younger man was in no state to fight and instead chose to believe that his father couldn’t be that cruel again, not now he had so brutally proven his point.

He took the glass from John with a shaking clammy hand and took a small sip. 

Dean had never tasted anything better in his life. The older hunter hadn’t lied to him, it was pure dirty unfiltered motel faucet water and it was heaven. He drank as fast as he could, which turned out to be too fast as within seconds he was coughing again.

“Easy! God Dean, take it easy.” Ordered John as he took the glass from Deans grasp and forced him to sit further upright and patted his back in an awkward and not-too-helpful manner.

As his coughs started to subside a little more, Dean exhaustively signalled for more water and thankfully John nodded his head in understanding.

Listening to his father walk away he slowly sunk down to rest against the headboard, wanting to pass out and disappear. Dean felt completely drained and hollow.

The younger man had never wanted this, he’d never taken any of those pills with the aim to kill himself, only to numb the pain of everything surrounding him. And John knew that. Even understood. 

But it was a sign of weakness, like his father had told him. And one thing John Winchester’s son could not display was weakness. Not ever. He had to be better, had to be ready. The perfect soldier.

  


Dean had scared John this evening and in turn John had scared the living daylights out of both of them. As the younger man watched his father return with his drink he noticed the pale parlour of his face. Sure John’s fists had done a lot of talking in the past but this stunt was on a different level… So as John tentatively passed the glass of water over to Dean and sat on the edge of his bed, Dean could tell he was in for some patented John Winchester-style rationalization.

And sure enough after 3 minutes of silence, John took a deep breath and began his perfected routine.

“I had to do that Dean.” Said the older man as he shook his head, “I had to make you see. I couldn’t- What if you’d done that to yourself?”

He glared at Dean accusingly but before his son could work out whether or not it was revulsion or shame he wore on his face the older Winchester quickly turned away.

“I’m not sorry…” John’s words shook a little at the edges making them less believable. However he cleared his throat and carried on with more conviction. “I’m not. And that’s the end of it. No more medication. If I find so much as an asprin on you Dean we’ll go through this whole song and dance again. I swear, I’m not… _I’m not_ losing anyone else. I can’t. Especially not to some drug habit, you owe me more than that.”

Dean wanted to find some way of saying _I’m sorry_ and _fuck you_ simultaneously but his body protested any slight movement he made, not to mention the raw pain in his stomach, chest, and throat. He was pretty sure that the chemicals from the chewed up pills had burnt his esophagus, there was also the slight (no, **definite** ) possibility Dean needed to have his stomach pumped. But realistically thinking, if his father had been planning to take him to the hospital he would have done it by now. Any sane person would have called an ambulance after forcing him to take all the medication in the first place, but then again no sane person would have gone to the lengths John had gone to just to prove a point. 

Part of Dean wished that the older hunter had dropped him off at a hospital and washed his hands of him then and there… But _no_ , of course _not_ \- that’s not how they dealt with things in this family.

Despite this Dean was left wondering that if John had left him all doped up on the I.C.U’s doorstep, would that situation have been be better or worse than the one he was currently in? It was a remarkably similar situation to earlier on, when he’d absentmindedly listened to his father’s ramblings about his brother…

They were on the same beds, John even had a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Only this time it was empty- what a continuity error. After a few moments, the older man let it slip through his hands and the bottle fell to the floor. Dean braced himself for the sound of breaking glass but instead there came a dull clunk as it hit the carpeted ground. 

  


Typical, things never break when you expect them to.

  


“I’m- I’m gunna get some fresh air.” Murmured John as he slowly got to his feet. He stared solemnly at the wall above where Dean lay for a beat before casting his gaze down towards his son with an mixed expression on his face. “You should get some rest. Turn onto your side, it’ll help you breathe easier.”

And with that suggestion he walked out of the small motel room, on the way his hand moved in a swift motion to collect a set of keys that lay on the table by the door. Baby’s keys. 

Dean expected anger to rise in his stomach but the only thing he felt was pain and nausea. All his fight had drained out of him. Instead he simply watched his father leave without saying a word then swiftly curled himself over onto his side and screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out the world...

  


* * * * * *

  


As John slammed the door shut he let out a slow shuddering breath. He felt his body buckling beneath him but he fought the urge to slowly slide down the wall of yet another motel room he couldn’t stand the sight of. But if John was being honest with himself (which he rarely was), it wasn’t the dreary furnishings, the stale smell of cigarettes, and the lingering presence of all the losers and deadbeats who haunted these places that he couldn’t stomach right now…

It was the lingering presence of what _he’d_ done. The fucked up mess of a test _slash_ drill _slash_ punishment John had put his own son through.

“God,” John mumbled and brought his hands up to his face to claw at his hairline. He wasn’t drunk enough for this. He was tipsy of course from the scattered drinks he’d drank throughout this entire trainwreck of a night, but when did being slightly drunk solve anyone’s problems? Least of all John Winchester’s problems?

The site of Dean lolling backwards as the drugs his own father had shoved down his throat hit his system replayed on an endless loop in John’s head. He needed to rid himself of it. Find something else to fixate on. To _deflect._

There was always blame… Always a root of the problem to be found in anything John encountered.

One word came to him so sudden it blocked out any other guilt-ridden voices screaming at him from inside the older hunter’s head.

  


The word was Bobby.

  


Bobby fucking Singer.

  


His cell phone was out of his pocket and before he knew it his fingers were aggressively punching in Bobby’s number. His breath got more and more heavy with each shrill ring of the dial tone.

Just when he thought it would remain unanswered, a tinny but gruff voice suddenly spoke into his ear. 

“Yeah?” Came the unmistakable voice of Bobby Singer.

“You fucking pill vendoring asshole.” Barked John in reply, unable to stop himself.

“Who is this?” 

“Who do you think?”

“I think you’ve got the wrong number.” Muttered Bobby, his voice tailing off at the end as though he was about to put the phone down.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me Singer!” John yelled as he walked further away from their motel room, not wanting Dean to hear any of this, and set off towards the Impala. By habit he’d grabbed the keys to that car instead of his new truck when he’d left the room but he was glad he had. He didn’t feel like sitting in that cold unfeeling vehicle, right now he wanted to go home. 

“John?” Said a confused voice after a few beats, “That you?”

“Finally! That greeting not clue you in?”

“What? Something about vendoring? Look John it’s 2 in the morning, can’t you take your drunken ramblings to someone who gives a shit.” There it was, the grouchy old man he knew. The interfering font of all hunting knowledge, a knowledge which apparently stretched to how to raise John’s children as well.

“Oh you wanna hear some ramblings huh? How about how your interference turned my son into an addict?” Seethed John, his fists clenching as he reached the Impala parked at the opening of the motel.

“The hell are you talking about?” 

“2 months ago you dosed Dean up with enough hospital-grade pills to-”

“So now you can’t even let the kid use painkillers to get over the injuries you caused?” Bobby angrily cut John off before he could finish his accusation and showered him in ones of his own, “ You really are a piece of work John. Who are you to lecture me when you were so out of your own head that you thought your son was a monster? _I’m_ the one who fixed that boy up and-”

“Oh yeah you fixed him up alright.” Shot back John whilst glaring at their motel room, knowing and fearing what his son had gone through in there- was still going through, “In fact he’s _so_ fixed up right now that he overdosed on those pills of yours!”

There was a couple of beats that passed between them. John was well aware of what his words had implied but he let Bobby stew in them for a few moments, wanting someone to suffer.

“No, no he’s not…” Said Bobby eventually, obviously imagining the worst had happened.

“Do you think I’d be calling you if Dean was dead?” Replied John bitterly. He flung open the door of the Impala and breathed in the familiar and comforting smell. It didn’t calm him like he’d thought it would, instead he continued to lay into Bobby. “I’d be high-tailing it over to your place ready to put a blade through your neck if that was the case.”

“Where is he then?” The older man asked, obviously ignoring John’s threats, “In the hospital?”

“None of your business Singer. Now I want you to listen long and hard… Never, and I mean never, give my son so much as a cough drop. I swear if I find out he’s back on that Novril shit again I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“John look,” There it was, the voice of goddamn reason. “Lord knows we don’t see eye to eye where your boys are concerned…”

John scoffed at that, “You got one thing right.”

“But he arrived at my house for help. The kid looked like he’d gone 3 rounds with a bag of cement, if only that were true- I wouldn’t have had to listen to Dean loyally defend a bag of cement would I? But I gave him, and by extension _you_ , the benefit of the doubt- and I fixed that boy up, gave him something to cope with the pain…” Bobby paused for a second then started on a new angle, a more caring voice came through his cellphone and shocked John, “Listen I know that Sam leaving-”

The name hit the standing man hard like a punch to the gut. He clutched onto the door frame of the Impala so hard he thought he might have bent the metal. Dean would kill him. 

“Stop right there. This is over Bobby.” John said coldly threw his teeth, wanting to shut this conversation down right now.

“Fine.” Replied Bobby, in Johns mind’s eye he could see Bobby lifting his hand in surrender, “Is Dean awake then? Can I speak to him?”

“No. He needs to rest, I’m not going to disturb him on your account.”

“Can’t you at least-”

“ _Goodbye_ Bobby.” 

“Wait, John-” 

John hung up, almost catching his fingers in his flip phone as he slammed it shut. The hunter was still standing outside the Impala, to the receptionist watching with tired eyes from the motel’s small lobby it had appeared like John had been on the cusp of getting into the car for a good few minutes. But he still hadn’t.

Instead John looked up over the roof of the sleek black Impala over towards his new truck which couldn’t look more different to his old Chevy if he tried. It was still an American-made though, John being the patriot he was. 

He blinked at that bullshit he told himself, he was no patriot. Fighting a meaningless bloody war had seen to that. As to which war he was referring to, he didn’t even know anymore. The hunter was pretty sure he’d lost every battle that had counted but did that stop him? Hell no. In fact he’d even drafted his son's in to fight alongside him. 

But now Sam had deserted them and Dean was unfit to fight. After all this, John was now nearly 100% sure that he wanted his boys out of the last big boss battle- if it ever came that is.

  


Out of the corner of his eye he saw the curtains of their motel room twitch a little and John looked around to see Dean peering out through the small window into the parking lot.

The sight of him made John’s guts churn. Dark circles lay beneath his son's eyes making his bight green iris’s stand out in stark contrast, his skin was paper white and even from where he stood John could see the tremble in his shoulders which made it seem as though he was about two seconds away from passing out.

A small horrified chuckle emitted from John’s lips.

  


He looked like a ghost.

  


The Impala’s door shut in an instant and the father and son stood staring at each other for a moment, they both heard the faint sound of an ambulance wailing in the distance but neither of them turned to acknowledge it…

  


John made his choice.

  


He was back in the motel room and ready to catch Dean as his legs started to go.

  


“Y-You l-leaving?” Dean rasped as John dragged him back towards the bed.

  


  


“Not now.” Replied John.

  


  


They both knew he would. But not now.

  


  


* 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took me so long to finish it- life got in the way- but here it is! Done, kinda.
> 
> The title and chapter titles are lyrics from the song Swallow It by Brandon Flowers (I know, cruel irony right?)
> 
> Also Novril's not a real painkiller, it's the codine-type pill that Paul Sheldon gets hooked on in the Stephen King book Misery. I was re-reading it recently and I remembered about the Crossfire series and this happened! I hope it's as accurate as it can be.
> 
> As always thank you for reading you lovely person ♡


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